They came with flags and books in hand,
Promised peace, then took the land.
Drew lines where rivers used to roam,
Built fences where the deer called home.

The hunters watched with quiet fire,
Eyes like dusk, hearts wrapped in wire.
They spoke in winds, in smoke, in drums –
But no one listened when war becomes.

Flint and feathers, fire and steel,
Two truths clashing on the wheel.
One fights to take, one fights to stay –
Both lose something either way.

(The moment before battle, stretched like a bowstring.)

The chief stood tall with weathered grace,
Painted sorrow on his face.
He said, “We do not own the land –
But we bleed when it slips our hand.”

A settler’s fear, a warrior’s pride,
The ghosts of both now ride side by side.
What’s carved in blood won’t wash with rain –
It echoes on through hill and plain.

Flint and feathers, bone and flame,
No one leaves here quite the same.
History’s not written clean –
It’s carved in bark and war machines.

They called it progress. We called it loss.